


Children of Suns

by FA17539



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Anakin Skywalker Needs a Hug, F/F, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Force-Sensitive Shmi Skywalker, M/M, Obi-Wan Kenobi Needs a Hug, Padmé Amidala's Elaborate Wardrobe, Protective Ahsoka Tano, Protective Anakin Skywalker, Protective Obi-Wan Kenobi, Tatooine, Tatooine Culture (Star Wars), Tatooine Folklore (Star Wars), Tatooine Slave Culture (Star Wars)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:20:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27603391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FA17539/pseuds/FA17539
Summary: Shmi Skywalker was never supposed to have a son.Let alone two.
Relationships: Anakin Skywalker/Obi-Wan Kenobi, CC-2224 | Cody & CT-7567 | Rex, Obi-Wan Kenobi & Anakin Skywalker & Ahsoka Tano, Padme Amidala/OFC, Padmé Amidala & Obi-Wan Kenobi & Anakin Skywalker
Comments: 4
Kudos: 35





	Children of Suns

**Author's Note:**

> Hey this is my first fic please enjoy!  
> Will try to post weekly :)  
> Here's a teaser for what's to come

Anakin often teased him that nothing got between Obi-Wan and a long, rich discussion on the history of tea, perhaps because he was often the unwilling recipient of one on their long, dull, trips through hyperspace. 

Yet Obi-Wan could hardly keep his restless eyes on the young (too young, Force knows) bright-eyed, Senate aide chattering away before him about the difference between smoky Nubian jungle leaves and the desert grass of her home world. Usually, Obi-Wan would be full Negotiator-mode, debating the merits of tannins versus bitterness until the banthas came home, but the shrouded figure across the humble meeting room leeched his attention away.

The Force…thrummed…around them. It was unmistakeably powerful, enough so that the whole room seemed to both rear back and lean in eager for a closer feel. Obi-Wan had met few that caused such a reaction, especially around non-Force sensitives.

Appraising them with his physical senses left Obi-Wan no less confused. What might have been a charming face was marred by a deep scar running from the brow bone, through what must have once been a bright cerulean eye to match the other, now a cloudy pool deep in its socket. The vicious wound continued down their cheek and through the edge of their lips, finally finishing before their jawbone. 

Or at least Obi-Wan presumed it did, since their neck was swathed in a deep red scarf wrapped in a desert rider style that could quickly be flicked up over their close-cropped sandy hair. He shuddered to think what sort of weapon could have been used – no, what sort of person could do this to one so young.  
They were human, yet they had wrapped themselves in earthy shawls like the deep desert moisture farmers he’d seen planet-side, their figure hidden in soft cloth. Even the gleaming charm on a chain did nothing to distract from how simply common they appeared. 

Certainly, a stark contrast to Senator Amidala’s elaborate green corset and kimlick feather gown, the wide hooped skirts covering her sharp kick to Obi-Wan’s shin when he’d teasingly asked how she managed to breathe in such a contraption. 

Perhaps it was unfair, she had packed for Coruscant. Yet, when the Senate directed them on a diplomatic mission, a few days rest in the Temple had to be sacrificed. Anakin had been most displeased to be diverted, retreating to his room in a teenaged huff he had yet to grow out of. Despite his upset, Obi-Wan was still constructing a gentle yet chastising lecture on timeliness, given his Padawan had chosen to arrive late to this first meeting. 

Obi-Wan had long given up on improving Anakin’s admittedly abysmal diplomacy skills, but he thought he had at least drilled into his mind the importance of first impressions. So much could be gleaned from what people wanted you to know, wanted you to see.   
Anakin was often too impatient to appreciate a good long people-watching with his Master, but Obi-Wan sorely missed his presence when faced with the mystery of these hosts.  
Thankfully, Padme wasn’t so diplomatically-delayed and was engaging the scarred stranger in soft conversation.

Obi-Wan excused himself from the aide, (promising to himself to consult his Tyrithian Tea Novela on those admittedly interesting theories), and approached the pair. 

Padme smiled up at him, “Master Kenobi, please join us.” 

“Thank you, Senator Amidala,” he replied, inclining his head and slipping into the space she made for him. 

“Master Kenobi, is one of the Order’s pre-eminent Jedi, ech Solna.” Padme says, her Nabooian lilt stumbling slightly over the unfamiliar title. 

“He has accompanied myself and other dignitaries across the galaxy, and is a true pinnacle of the Jedi ideals of peace and prosperity.”

Their host merely glances at Obi-Wan, silent and stony, the scar even more awful up close, mottled red and angry looking. 

Huh. Usually the Outer Rim people are frothing over the chance to hear first-hand tales of the daring exploits of the Jedi Order. 

“You flatter me, Senator, truly.” Obi-Wan forces out the chuckle, shoulders tense as he flicks his gaze to their host.

The mismatched eyes pierce his as they lift a cloaked hand to take a slow sip of their cracked clay mug. Obi-Wan wracks his brain for something (Force, anything) to break this pregnant silence. 

Before he can, he’s beaten by a soft, lisping voice,   
“Excuse my bluntness, Senator”, the stranger’s Huttese-tinged Basic slips out of their lips, scar twisting as they speak, “But my people have little love for the Jedi.”

Sweat slips down Obi-Wan’s back. Curse this Force-forsaken planet.

“Their impotence and ignorance have led to much suffering”, the stranger continues voice deep and firm.

Padme and Obi-Wan share a heavy glance. 

“But”, the stranger’s head tips to the side, in a way Obi-Wan finds oddly familiar, “we will follow my lady’s advice and the standards of the Senate for the betterment of our application.”

Seemingly deeming that enough conversation, they turn their back on Padme and him and heads to the small spread of refreshments. Padme raises his eyebrows at him before slipping off to where one of her handmaidens is unsuccessfully removing Representative Binks’ head from a decorative vase. 

There’s something strange about how the stranger talks, not just the accent, but something wrong with how they talk. Obi-Wan had thought it was that awful scar, but it largely missed their mouth. They seemed to be keeping their lips very close, as though something could escape. 

Obi-Wan had a sudden, inappropriate flashback to when Anakin made him try Corellian Fire Bugs. That mental image of six prickly legs crawling out his Padawan’s laughing mouth haunted him for days after. 

He’s snapped out his reverie by a hand clapping onto his shoulder.

“I’m sorry Master, Artoo was nagging my ear off about upgrading that hydro-repellent, you know how antsy he gets here.”

Anakin’s robes are grease stained for Force-sake, not forgetting that they are also too short at the ankle and wrist. His Padawan seems intent on growing, even though he had long surpassed his Master.

Obi-Wan is thankful that he’s finally here though, and turns his head to discreetly fill Anakin in on his assessments so far, when he sees Anakin’s eyes narrow dangerously.

Before Obi-Wan can blink, there’s the familiar sound of a lightsabre whirring open and the crash of shattered crockery as the refreshment table goes flying.   
Above the cries of the guests, Obi-Wan can clearly hear; 

“Where! Where did you take that kosna from!” Anakin bellows, the blue glow of his lightsabre sizzling the fabric of the stranger’s scarf.

“Anakin stop!” Obi-Wan cries, pulling Anakin away from their host, as the locals pull out arms aiming at his foolish Padawan, and their men pull out more blasters on them. 

“This,” the stranger spits, fist wrapped around the chain Obi-Wan noticed before, “is mine.”

“Kriffin’ liar.” Anakin swears, struggling against Obi-Wan’s hold. In their years together Obi-Wan had never felt so much from Anakin in the Force, he was swamped with dizzying waves of fury and sorrow. 

The stranger lets out a mirthless laugh, their hand rubbing through their sand-coloured hair, a too tired expression on the face of one so young.

Obi-Wan can see out of the corner of his eye Padme ushering their Senate representatives and locals out of the meeting room, likely expecting the brawl that Obi-Wan can read coming in the Force.

“Who are you to have that krosna,” Anakin spits, finally tiring of his thrashing in Obi-Wan’s arms.

The stranger flicks a quick hand signal to their attendants, and blasters are lowered across the room. 

“My title is Chairman of the Eternally Free People of Tatooine,” their scarred lips spread wide in a smirk that reveals a gaping hole where two front teeth should be, “but my name, is Anakin Skywalker.”


End file.
